Leave It to Claire

by Tracey Bateman

  The Bible study is just what I need, a walk through the ark of the covenant as it relates to personal relationship and worship. I end up on my knees, in awe of a holy God—though why He would want my time eludes me. Especially after my attitude today.

  The clock downstairs bongs eleven just as I get up off the floor and close the workbook. I feel cleansed, whole, completely at peace as I gather a deep breath of accomplishment. Following my nightly ritual, I exit my bedroom to check in on the kids one last time before I pop in my movie (yes, the same one) and turn in.

  I open Shawn and Jakey’s door, walk inside. I stop at Shawn’s bed first. He’s curled into a little ball and sleeping like the angel I know him to be. A tuft of hair is lying in an unruly wave across his forehead. I reach out and push it away with my fingertips. Bending forward, I press a kiss to his cheek. He moves, moans, then settles back into peace.

  Jakey’s covers are flung carelessly from him and he’s sprawled in his racecar jammies, one leg hanging off the edge of his bed. He begged for bunk beds, but knowing his restlessness, I didn’t dare chance it. He’d fall off for sure. And really, do we need broken bones in this family? We have enough problems as it is.

  I cover him back up, knowing it will do no good and that in all likelihood, thirty seconds after I leave the room, he’ll have them flung off again. I press a kiss to his cheek also, but sleep-like-the-dead boy doesn’t budge. Smile.

  As I head down the hall to Tommy’s room, I tap and enter. Lord, he snores like his dad. I walk in (maneuvering around clothes, shoes, a skateboard, and textbooks that I’m almost positive he never opens), do a once-over. He’s all covered up, snoring happily. I barely contain a sudden burst of joy. Things have improved so much since I started having family movie night. He’s like the boy he once was. Oh, his hair is still long and unruly, he still wears his jeans way too big and low, and he still says annoying things like “What up, Dogg?” But I can handle this phase he’s going through as long as the attitude doesn’t go south again. Following God’s example, I will look past the outward appearance and look at what I know to be in his heart.

  Softly, I close his door. One more stop to make before I try to finish my movie—ever the optimist.

  Low tones are coming from Ari’s room and for a second my heart nearly stops. Does Ari have someone in there? I stand outside and listen for a second. “I’m telling you, Granny, she’s flipped her lid.”

  Granny? The phone didn’t ring, so Ari must have called Mom. She knows better than to do that so late at night. And by the way, who exactly has flipped her lid?

  “It’s like she’s not the same mom anymore.”

  Hello, wasn’t that the point? I mean, really.

  “I’m not kidding, the other day she was outside on Tommy’s skateboard. Trying to learn a kickflip.”

  What a little Benedict Arnold! If she is so sure I flipped my lid, then why did she give me a “cool” nod after the skateboard episode? I’m really close to flinging open that door and confronting her, but her next words stop me in my tracks. “I know she has time off with this whole surgery, but she’s turning our lives upside down with all these changes. I mean, Monday movie night? Please.”

  If that’s the way she feels about it, she can just forget about any movies wherein the main actor is good-looking or teenage.

  “Yes. I see your point,” she says grudgingly, and I can only guess what my mom has advised. “But how can she possibly think that paying attention to us for three months while she’s forced to stay off the computer is going to make up for the last few years? Besides, we all know that as soon as she’s well, we won’t be reading a chapter a night in Purpose-Driven Life or having Monday movie night. It’ll be back to the way it was before.”

  Leaning with my back against the wall next to her slightly open door, I feel like banging my head. In a million years, I never would have guessed Ari was so skeptical about the whole new life we’re making as a family. My disappointment hits me on a couple of different levels. First, I honestly believed that she was with me on this. Talk about seeing what you want to see. And second, she thinks my reason for doing the family stuff is because I have nothing better to do.

  “Do you think you might come back, Granny?”

  I hold my breath, listening to Ari sniffling. “I know. I do understand. It’s just that the cheerleader carnival is next week, and all the other mothers are bringing baked stuff or something. I’ll be the only girl on the squad who doesn’t bring anything to sell.”

  She blows her nose. “Huh? I don’t know if she would. Does Mom know how to bake stuff?”

  My cheeks warm. Okay, so homemade baked goods aren’t my strong suit. I admit that. But she has to admit I’m darned good at regular food.

  But she has a point. Mom always made the cupcakes for school parties, served as “room mother,” or volunteered in the classrooms in various capacities. Good grief. In many ways, my mom is also Ari’s mom. My heart sinks to my toes. How do you regain lost years with your child who is close to becoming a young woman?

  It’s too late for cupcakes. She’s too old for grade school stuff. But the cheerleader bake sale sounds like a good place to start. How hard can it be to buy a brownie mix and follow the recipe, right? I’ll make my daughter proud of me. I tap on the door and she jumps as I step inside. “I gotta go,” she says and essentially hangs up on Mom.

  “Time for lights-out, Ari.”

  “Okay. ’Night.”

  I watch her slide her bare toes under the quilt and then follow with the rest of her body.

  “Everything okay?” A slight frown mars her forehead.

  “Everything is fine, sweetheart.” I stride to her bed and grasp the quilt. Her eyes are wide like she’s not sure whether she should holler for help or not.

  “Ma, what are you doing?”

  I snatch at the corners of her quilt and pull it up to her neck. Next I tuck her in properly. “There.” I smile. “I haven’t tucked you in for ages.”

  “You heard my conversation with Granny, didn’t you?”

  My eyes go wide in feigned innocence. But seeing her dubious scowl, I know there’s no point in denying it. “Yes, I overheard.”

  “Man, we really gotta talk about some privacy issues.”

  “You were talking about me, you know. I had a perfect right to eavesdrop.”

  “It was still a private conversation,” she shoots back, apparently not in the mood to apologize for telling my mother I’ve flipped my lid.

  “You really want Granny to come back that badly, huh?”

  “Don’t you?”

  I shrug. “I miss her.” And her brownies, right?

  I almost blurt out my intention, but instead I think Ari might need a nice little surprise, so I decide to leave my contribution to the cheerleading bake sale completely under wraps. She’ll see the depth of my love for her. Maybe I can’t make up for lost time, but the least I can do is bake a pan of brownies.

  Well, personally, I think that’s a terrible idea!”

  My heart goes out to Darcy a little as she stands in front of the dowagers on the Christmas decorating committee. I understand why she hesitates to stand up for herself and her ideas (which are pretty good). Her main opposition is coming from Pastor’s aunt. How do you disagree with someone like that?

  “We’ve always used the nativity to decorate,” Mrs. Devine expels, glancing around for support. She receives just enough nods to encourage her to continue her dissenting opinion. “My goodness. I can’t even imagine the outrage Jesus must feel for all the churches decorating with Christmas trees. Why, it’s like setting up golden calves right on the platform with twinkling lights and ornaments.”

  I clear my throat as Darcy appears to shrink smaller and smaller. I’m afraid she will be carpet fuzz if this woman is allowed to continue. “Now, wait a second,” I say. Darcy perks up, her eyes alight with shock and maybe a little hesitant hope.

  “Darcy isn’t suggesting that we discount the nativity.
As a matter of fact, I heard her mention setting it up as always. She is merely suggesting adding to that particular decoration to beautify the Fellowship Hall. She isn’t asking to put it in the sanctuary or even the main building.

  “And besides. Didn’t baby Jesus and one of the wise men get broken last year when the youth group was taking it all down?” (And for the record, after Pastor caught the teenage boys playing football with baby Jesus, it was unanimously agreed upon that the youth group not be asked to undecorate from now on. Personally, I think they did it on purpose to get out of the extra work.) “As far as I know those haven’t been replaced, and it’s a little late to go ordering new stuff.”

  Mrs. Devine’s face goes a fascinating, if not frightening, shade of red. Clearly this woman is not used to being refuted. But hey, she can get over it. Why ask a peacock like Darcy to do a luncheon, complete with decorations, and then expect her to use twenty-year-old decorations that are no reflection of her style and taste? Peacocks are beautiful and meant to strut their stuff. And so is Darcy.

  “Well, I will not attend if you decide to go with pagan decorations.”

  Tears shine in Darcy’s eyes. The woman’s bullying has just gotten on my last nerve. I start to stand up, but a short woman with gorgeous white hair and dark eyes and complexion speaks up. Greg’s mom. Possibly my future mother-in-law. “Excuse me for butting in, but I think Darcy’s idea is wonderful. I love poinsettias and Christmas lights. I don’t see how it could hurt as long as we don’t use things that might be offensive to some, such as Santa or reindeer or elves. There shouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps, we should ask Pastor’s opinion?”

  The room trickles into silence. Bring Pastor into a decorating dispute? I can tell Joan isn’t about to chance it. Everyone knows that Pastor’s as giddy as a four-year-old during the Christmas holiday. It would be a pretty safe bet to assume he’d side with Darcy, familial ties notwithstanding.

  Only one or two of Mrs. Devine’s disciples remain silent as the other women begin to nod and voice their agreement.

  I send Darcy a wink. But she isn’t smiling. I see her staring after Mrs. Devine as the woman jerks to her feet and leaves the room. As though she feels my attention, she turns to me. I see pain in her eyes. There is no triumph that the women’s group has sided with her rather than the unspoken leader for over twenty years. How can this woman be for real?

  “Shall we pray and dismiss?” she asks in a somber voice.

  Normally, I would take off without talking to anyone (which, by the way, hardly helps out with number five on my list), but I feel like I need to speak with Darcy. We haven’t really conversed this week, since the appointment with Dr. Goldberg. I’ve seen her at church, but she’s been subdued. Not her usual smiling self. This morning, she presented the idea for the decorations with very little zeal.

  I wait while the women milling around her thin out. When only Greg’s mom, Darcy, and I remain in the room, I step forward. Darcy sees me and bursts into tears, flinging herself into my arms. “Oh, Claire, I’ve caused division. All I do is cause division.”

  I let her cry a minute, then I hold her out at arm’s length. “Darcy, are you kidding me? Shaking things up a bit is a great thing. Look how many of the women are happy about the change in decorations. And good grief, they’re decorations. You’re not introducing a new doctrine.”

  “That’s right!” the other woman pipes in. “You stick to your guns, sweetheart. It won’t hurt Joan one bit to eat a little crow.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lewis.” Darcy squeezes the older woman’s hand. “I’ll do my best.”

  The back door of the church opens just as Darcy wipes her eyes and nose. My heart does a little loop-de-loop at the unexpected sight of Greg in the doorway. He looks like a creature from Greek mythology surrounded by the glow of the autumn sun beating down on his position.

  Before his own mother has a chance to greet him, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  He chuckles and strides into the room. “I took the afternoon off. I signed the papers today.” He winks at me and I feel my cheeks warm.

  “On your new house?” his mother asks as he bends down and presses a kiss to her smooth cheek. “It’s amazing how quickly the sale of a house can go when all the parties are in agreement.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Greg smiles his amazing smile. His eyes soften when he looks at his mom. “I came to see if I can take you out to lunch to celebrate.”

  “I think you can.” Her eyes twinkle and she smiles with pleasure. Watching the two of them, I am completely taken in by the easy camaraderie. It’s not difficult to see where Greg gets his charm.

  “Well,” Darcy says, “I think we’ll go grab some lunch, too. You game, Claire?”

  I’d rather eat my eyebrows than have lunch with Darcy and have to discuss the menu for her Christmas luncheon (a menu sure to cause more vocal displeasure from Pastor’s aunt), but how do I get out of it gracefully? Just as I’m in the throes of this dilemma, Mrs. Lewis speaks up. “Why don’t you two join us? We’re going to the Chinese buffet.”

  Okay, have I ever mentioned that next to pizza, Chinese food is my all-time favorite?

  “That’s a great idea. Don’t you think so, Claire? We love Chinese.”

  I happen to know that Darcy is anti-carbs. And if there’s one low-carb item on the Chinese buffet, I think it’s broccoli, and she doesn’t need to spend $8.99 (drink included, free refills) for a plate of broccoli.

  I send her a “What’s going on?” look, to which she responds with a wink. A knowing wink. A sly, knowing wink. A sly, knowing wink that expresses that she knows I have a… Oh, my gosh! Darcy knows I have a crush on Greg! How? It must be that pod-girl thing. It’s a well-known fact that aliens read minds.

  I’m aghast. There’s only one thing to do when I’m in such a state. Let the babbling commence.

  “Oh, no, I better go…”

  Darcy gives an airy laugh. “Go where? Your cleaning lady will be at the house all afternoon.” (In keeping with number two on my list. Still, I am definitely going to get muzzles for the kids. Who said they could go blabbing about my new housekeeper, who I’m almost sure drinks the Diet Coke, not to mention the fact that she never vacuums behind any of the furniture?)

  “That settles it.” Greg’s mom is totally staring me down, daring me to refuse one more time. She was so sweet and supportive only ten minutes ago. Where did this warrior princess come from? “Let’s stop standing around talking about it and go have lunch. My treat.”

  “Oh, no,” Greg pipes in. “My treat.”

  “Oh, no” right back at him. There’s no way he’s buying my lunch when we’re not even on a date.

  “Really,” I say in my going-along-but-only-so-far voice. “I’ll buy lunch.”

  Darcy shrugs and gives a playful grin. “Looks like our waitress is getting a good tip.”

  18

  I wake up on Saturday morning knowing there’s something going on today, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is I’m supposed to be remembering. The kids are at Rick’s for the weekend, so I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to do with them. We will start fittings for the matron of honor gown next week, so I know for sure it’s not that.

  No counseling sessions on the weekend.

  Racking my brain here! Nothing. Shoot. Still can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. Oh, I hate that!

  I push back the snuggly comforter. No point in trying for that five more minutes today. Sleep will inevitably elude me like the five pounds I seem to be missing. There’s a happy thought. I’ve stayed on the wagon these past couple of weeks, with one small exception for the whole Chinese lunch thing. And given that I was sitting across from Greg, who could really do justice to a buffet? I mean, really. I ate like a bird.

  My doctor will be pleasantly surprised, I’m sure, when I go in for round two of my surgery in three weeks. Maybe I could even lose another five or ten poun
ds by then.

  Okay, now I’m all motivated to go walk. Amazing how easy it is to get out there now that I feel a little improvement. I can’t really see those five pounds yet, but there is strength in my legs that wasn’t there before. I’m able to walk for twenty minutes now without feeling like I’d fight the Saint Bernard down the street for his water bowl and a nice rest inside his shady doghouse.

  I slip into my gray-and-black exercise pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt to ward off the slight chill of an October morning in Missouri, and pull on the Nikes. Like Pavlov’s dog, my body senses the coming activity and my muscles come alive. I’m anxious to hit the pavement, to watch the minutes (all twenty of them) rack up as I put one foot in front of the other.

  I stop by the kitchen for a glass of water before heading outside. I grab my watch and keys from the counter, and I’m off.

  Na-na-naaaaaaaaaah…

  Oh, yeah. I’m getting there. I am so high on life and the desire to take my fitness to the next level, I think I might actually be ready to—Okay, I’m speeding up, walking faster. All it would take for this brisk walk to become a jog is a little bounce. Should I or shouldn’t I?

  This line of thinking takes me by surprise. I’ve never had aspirations to go that extra mile, make it harder on me than absolutely necessary, but I see myself running. I’m really skinny. In a good, healthy kind of way. Can I really be a runner?

  I’m walking really fast, so I give a sort of jump. Okay! I’m jogging. I can’t express my happiness that I, Claire Everett, geek in school, overweight in adulthood, am becoming athletic. Oh, but jogging hurts. And I can’t catch my breath. Have I really only gone half a block? Enough already. I hate jogging. If I had Tommy’s skateboard, I’d ride it home rather than have to walk on my cramping calves.